Hope
by DesireSpark
Summary: Gale Hawthorne and Madge Undersee were selected to compete in the 74th Annual Hunger Games. Katniss Everdeen is left in District 12, alone and broken when Gale admits his undying love for Madge. Her cracked and wounded heart can only be mended by one boy looking to rescue her from herself.
1. She Came Here with Me

"I don't think it's going to work out. Winning… won't help in my case."

"Why ever not?"

"Because… because… she came here with me."

My face blanches white, but I remain stoic and maintain my hard gaze on the television. The unforgiving dirt floor offers no protection or comfort from the words Gale has spoken. My life has become a bitter void since he left, chosen alongside Madge Undersee, to enter the Hunger Games. I thought he was mine; I thought it was destiny that we met in the District 12 forest, fighting for our lives because of a mutual paternal absence. We've only been friends since then, but I always assumed there was something more. I guess he just proved me wrong. On live television.

I've hardly noticed Peeta Mellark standing a few feet away from me, watching my every move – or lack thereof. He comes to our house regularly to deliver bread in exchange for medicine for his brothers. They got into a bad accident in the bakery, and have serious burns covering most of their bodies. He doesn't usually speak much other than to ask for the medicine, which I don't mind because I'm not one for talking, either. But this time is different; the Hunger Games have nearly begun.

"Katniss?" I can't look away from the television, though. My eyes want to forever remember the moment I lost the man I thought I belonged with. I am impervious to him reaching out to me, but when his palm connects gently with my shoulder, I draw in my breath sharply and shy away, and he automatically retracts his hand. I expect him to leave immediately, just as almost everyone else in my life has, but he sits down next to me instead, a cautious foot away. My gaze remains on the TV, which has already tuned out of Gale's interview and now shows a flustered Caesar Flickerman conversing with Claudius Templesmith on the interviews. My hands are balled up in fists, the knuckles white with the tension.

"Katniss," Peeta says with more conviction, his eyes glued to my face. "It's just an act, Katniss. He doesn't really mean that. It's an angle to get sponsors." What he says might have merit, but the words still hurt. I just thought that he felt differently about me, that he saw me as more than just Katniss.

"He really loves you, you know."

This uttering is a surprising revelation, and my head snaps towards him. I search his eyes for honesty, and find a striking, perpetual vastness of blue. I see longing, and compassion, empathy, and a twinkling splinter of hope. He holds my gaze with an unabashed seriousness. We maintain eye contact for a long moment, and he turns away first, my cold stare seeping into his warm and inviting personality. I turn away, too, but not because I'm uncomfortable. I didn't know Peeta Mellark ever noticed anything about me.

He sighs, not in relief, but in regret - maybe for something he didn't mean to do, or something he wished hadn't happened, but I disregard it as irrelevant. His leg muscles flex as he forces them to push himself upward, and the sound of his black sneakers fades away until I can't hear him anymore. I turn around to look at the emptiness my home has become, but instead find him still standing in the doorway. My eyes flicker up again to small, piercing crystals, waiting for a new declamation, but he only murmurs in a low voice, "And with good reason."


	2. Sunset Orange

**The next chapter, brought to you all the way from the Capitol! I thought this was going to be a one-shot but I got a bit of positive feedback (let's remain modest, of course I haven't gotten many reviews or anything yet) so here's the next chapter! I hope you like it, if you do please review. I really appreciate those **

"She's barely spoken since he left, Peeta. She doesn't even make eye contact with people. She won't smile or acknowledge anyone. What do I do?"

"You wait."

"I can't give up on her again. I don't want to see her go through what I did when my husband… passed."

"She's not depressed. Katniss is too strong for that. She's still functioning normally. She just needs time."

"What about in the mean time? I need help. I don't know what to do."

"Mrs. Everdeen, I highly doubt –"

"Could you just try? Please? I don't know what else to do."

"Of course, although I don't know how much good it'll do."

"Thank you, Peeta. I'm going to the meadow to collect herbs, but she should be back shortly. Please, make yourself at home until she returns."

There's a creaking sound from the door followed by a slam, and I wait a few minutes to enter from the back. Peeta and my mother have no idea I've been listening in to their conversation. It doesn't matter though because Peeta's right; he's not going to be able to fix anything.

I push open the door, making light cascade into the house across the earthen floor. Peeta's eyes immediately flicker over to me, but I do not acknowledge his presence. I simply begin cleaning and cutting the game to prepare it for salting. Strangely enough, Peeta does not approach me or say a word for a few uncomfortable minutes. Creaking springs followed by footsteps coming towards me resound across the room, but I don't turn around. I remain focused on the rabbits before me, and how exactly I'll prepare them tonight for my family.

"Katniss?" I still don't turn around, but continue cutting away.

A soft breath escapes his mouth in a sigh, accompanied by the scratching sound his fingernails make when he rakes them through his hair.

Another sigh.

"Katniss, I'm not going to lie to you. Your mother asked me if I could talk to you, to see if I can help you, maybe. But I don't think I know how, I don't think there's anything I can say that will make you feel better about Gale." The name stings when he says it, but I field the pain by building up more shields and walls. That's what's worked for me in the past.

He gasps very quietly and subtly, almost unnoticeably, but my hunter's senses can pick up even the smallest, most distant noise. "I'll be right back," he breathes, breaking into a jog as he exits. In the time that he's gone, I cut up the rest of the meat into pieces and salt it down to preserve it.

Pain still ebbs. Everywhere. I feel broken, not attacked by a wild dog or a tracker jacker, not burned by flame or frostbitten by ice, not cut with a knife or shot by a bullet or slashed with a whip. I'm broken on the inside and I don't know how to fix it. I want to stop – stop working, stop hunting, stop breathing, stop living. When did this all become so difficult? Why can't I just go back to the ironic happiness I felt in barely surviving alongside my best friend?

Peeta bursts in the door, and I only turn to bring the bucket of salted meat into the cool corner where it's least likely to go bad. He's carrying two white fabric box-looking things and a metal case that rattles with every move he makes. He sets them all down on the table while I clean up the counter I just covered in rabbit blood. His smile radiating towards me, but I don't want to be happy. I don't want him to try to make me happy. I just want to be left to die.

"Look, I know you might not take much interest in something like this," he begins, "but it's always helped me when I'm down. It's the best way for me to get everything out, because once it's on a canvas, it doesn't have to be inside you anymore. You can just kind of… release the emotion."

Canvas?

It's all explained when he creaks open the case to reveal paintbrushes and an assortment of colorful paints. He squeezes a dab of a few colors onto a wooden palette, and fills a stained cup with water. Color swirls over his canvas, creating beautiful mixtures of strokes and dots that convey a naïve happiness. It's in essence, Peeta. But I don't want any of it.

"Here, you want to paint with me?" I don't even flinch. I don't look at him or even breathe differently. I just sit at the table and stare at the wall blankly. Why can't he understand that there's no fixing this? I'm irreparable, and nothing he can say or do will change it.

"No."

"Come on, please? It's fun. You'll feel better after, I swear. If you don't… I owe you something from the bakery." His pleading tone sets me off. I want him to leave. Instead, his presence appears behind me and he takes my right arm, guiding my back with his left hand. "Here, I'll show you," he soothes. He's so strong that I really have no choice of getting up. He doesn't even know his own strength – he's unknowingly forcing me over there.

I stand in front of a blank canvas. His hand is still on my back, and I shrug it off. He momentarily loses face, but takes my right hand in his and places a paintbrush in it. He dabs it in a light orange paint and whispers, "That's my favorite color. Not really a bright, iridescent color, but more muted. Like the sunset."

His hand guides mine in front of the canvas, creating a wave of orange that starts low and rises, peaking before it glides downward again. My hand clenches the paintbrush, anger bubbling over.

"Gentle," he says softly, "like you're holding Prim's hand." He smiles at me, but I don't hold the brush any lighter. My eyes flame, and all of a sudden, he asks worriedly, "Katniss, are you alright?"

I look into his face, seething. My shoulder shoves him away, and I throw the brush on the ground. "No, Peeta! I am not alright! I don't want your stupid help and I don't want your stupid bread and I don't want your stupid painting! I'm done with this! This is never going to help me, and in fact, it's making me even angrier. Just leave already, why don't you?"

Peeta Mellark, the sweet, caring boy who bakes bread and paints and loves the color of sunset does not back down. I would expect him to try to comfort me or try a different approach to helping me, or even just to do what everyone else has: walk out of my life. Instead, his bright blue eyes darken, and a challenging look covers his face.

"Katniss, I'm trying to help you here! When are you ever going to open up and just take help from someone? Shutting everyone out and letting your sadness and anger eat you alive – that's not good for you. Painting? Talking to someone? Crying on someone's shoulder? That's good for you. When are you going to wake up and realize that you're not the only person going through something? Suck it up and learn how to cope with this, because closing up and building walls isn't getting you anywhere, sweetheart."

With that, he gathers his paints and canvases, and storms over to the door. Before exiting, he yells, "When you finally wake up and see that Gale isn't the only other person in the world, come find me."

Slam.


	3. I Won't

It's been a couple of days. I've cooled off, and realized that Peeta might be right. My typical Katniss demeanor might have worked until now, but he can help, too. For some reason I can't explain, I have a strong need to go see him and talk to him, so I take down a few animals and gather greens and berries in the woods to trade at the bakery.

I'm hoping to find him there, waiting behind the counter in their little family bakery, but instead I see his father. "Katniss, hello! Looking to trade?" he smiles.

"Yes, please. I have five rabbits, six squirrels, four quail, and a turkey. Oh, and a bunch of greens and fruit. How much do you want?" I ask. This same barter has happened hundreds of times over the years, so there's no point in being standoffish.

"That's great; how much do you need for dinner tonight? I'd be happy to trade for whatever you don't want."

"Actually, I don't need any of these kills; I have meat salted down at home. I was just going to sell the rest at the Hob after stopping here."

"Don't even bother. Can I buy all of it? I was hoping to make a stew this weekend."

I look up at him in surprise. He's never bought that much from me. "Are you kidding?" I ask in astonishment.

He chuckles in response. "Not at all," he says, cracking a smile, and I have to look twice to remember it's not Peeta I'm looking at. His father is an older version of his youngest son, and it is evident how alike they look when Mr. Mellark smiles, because his face has the same jaw line, the same dimpling, and the same teeth. Maybe I just noticed this because a smile is the most memorable expression I know of Peeta. "Let me just go get Peeta to help with the bread. That boy might as well take over the business; he knows it better than I do." He turns around the corner and yells out that Peeta has a customer.

A sinking feeling takes over my body. He's going to get Peeta. Which means I have about 10 seconds until I have to face him after not talking to him for a week. Which means he's going to act very cold toward me. How am I supposed to act? Do I just act professional and ignore the elephant in the room? Or am I supposed to ask how he is? I let a sigh escape my mouth, frustrated with the unfamiliar feeling of social interaction. It was so much easier when I didn't talk to anyone but Madge and Gale.

Their names make me wince, even though they weren't even spoken. It's the second day of the Games, and they both survived the Bloodbath, escaping to the woods together with a pre-planned alliance. They take care of each other, in more ways than one. I wouldn't be so hurt if they were just allying together because they're from the same District, but every time he kisses her, it's like a slap in the face. I wonder what will happen when Gale comes home, if he makes it. We might not ever be the same, or maybe he's still clueless that I was in love with him, and that it kills me every time his beautiful smile presses up against her full, pink lips.

And there he is. A smudge of flour is smeared on the right side of his face, on his lower jaw. His wide azure eyes darken when he meets my nervous and apologetic gaze. Golden lashes guard his blue orbs when he looks down at the floor. His apron is covered in dough and flour, and I can't help but notice the way his light blue button-down shirt pulls tight against his lean muscles earned from hours of kneading bread and hauling sacks of flour. He wipes his hands on his apron, accidentally smudging a bit on his black jeans that hang low on his hips. His blonde hair falls over his forehead, slightly wet at the sides with sweat. I can't say that I've ever seen him look this attractive. Maybe I just haven't been looking. Or rather, I've been looking but not seeing.

He inhales deeply and steps up to the counter, a painfully short distance from me. Discomfort hangs in the room like a hazy cloud, and his father ducks into the kitchen away from us. "How can I help you?" he asks dully, his eyes trying to hide the anger that leaks out around the edges.

Ouch.

I field the blow by being as professional as possible, not saying anymore than necessary. "I wanted to trade this." I push the bags toward him across the counter before adding, "Your father said he wanted all of it for this weekend." He looks down at the bags, his face set and jaw clenched tight as he pulls out the dead animals and brings them to the back room. When he's totaled up everything, he goes to the glass panel of doors showcasing bakery goods and grabs the exact order I make every time I come here, placing them gingerly in white paper bags marked with the Mellark Bakery insignia. He piles everything on the counter in front of me and grabs money from the cash register to cover the rest.

"Is that all?" he asks, his double meaning evident to me. _No, that's not all. _I think to myself. _I came to say I'm sorry._ I open my mouth to say this, but look down to the floor and nod my head instead, nerves taking over. I can feel his glare burning on my face, but I keep my eyes fixed on the floor. He continues staring at me in what I know to be a hurt and frustrated expression, and finally mumbles, "Have a nice day," very insincerely before walking into the kitchen. I grab all the bags and the envelope of money sitting on the counter before running out of the bakery, the bell tinkling sharply when I yank the door open and walk quickly down the street.

It doesn't set in until I'm a few blocks away from the bakery that I made a huge mistake. I lost my chance to tell him he was right, that I want his help. I don't have to think about it before I turn around and sprint back down the street toward the bakery.

I burst inside the front door, producing a clamor of metal when the bell is rattled around upon entrance. Mr. Mellark is standing behind the counter, stunned and spooked. "Katniss!" he yelps, grabbing his heart in one hand and the counter with the other. "You scared the hell out of me! What are you doing back here?" I'm breathing heavily and manage to rasp out, "I need to talk to Peeta." My eyes are wild and searching for the blonde, blue-eyed baker who is, no doubt, inside the kitchen making bread or pastries or a cake.

Mr. Mellark smiles sweetly back at me, and pushes off the counter to go into the kitchen. "Peeta," he calls, and my stomach lurches even more than it did the first time his father went to find him. For a moment I contemplate leaving and never coming back, but I realize what I have to face. Peeta finally emanates from the kitchen alone, and he crosses his arms over his chest, waiting for me to say something. I take note again of just how nice his arms looks when his shirt pulls against them, and look up to his face before he thinks I'm staring. His normally kind eyes are skeptical and annoyed, and I'm sure a light pink color tints my cheeks because of it.

"Peeta," I breathe, unsure how to start, and my use of his name seems to soften the tension held in his shoulders. I stare at the ground before starting. "I'm sorry for the other day. I shouldn't have said that stuff to you," I say in a small voice. "You were just trying to help and I…" I briefly pause to look up at his eyes again, which have softened with compassion, but look down again in embarrassment. "I should have listened to you. You were right."

He lets it all sink in, and I stand there for a horrible four seconds before he whispers my name and comes over from behind the counter. He slowly takes all my bags from my hands and places them on the counter. I don't register what's happening until a few seconds after his strong arms are around me, pressing me close. My face rests up against his chest, and my arms wrap around him to return the hug.

"It's not your fault," he whispers in a soothing voice, stroking my hair. After a few blissful moments of his strong embrace, he takes my shoulders and pushes me a foot back from him. His bright blue orbs sear into my ashen grey eyes. "Just don't shut me out again."

"I won't," I promise. And I really mean it.


	4. Three Things

Peeta comes to my house every day after that. Sometimes we paint, sometimes we sit and talk, sometimes we watch the Games. District 12 has been feeling a little softer and happier, as the people are rejoicing over the rule change, and even the fact that both our tributes have made it this far. I decide that it's hope hanging in the air that makes everything smell a little sweeter. Peeta and I are both a little tense, now that Madge and Gale are only up against a few more enemies – Clove and Cato from District 2, that fox-faced girl from 5, and the bulky guy named Thresh from 11. And Gale's hurt badly; he suffered a serious leg wound protecting Madge from Cato, so his only hope of surviving is Madge getting medicine from the feast. I would bet anything that she's going to sneak away from him while he's sleeping to get 12's pack. She might not be skilled with weapons or built for fighting, but she's quick and strong-willed. She cares about Gale a whole lot. Maybe she can save him, after all.

Today Peeta shows up at my door without a box of paints and fresh paper. Instead, he walks in with a loaf of bread and places it on the table before joining me in front of the TV. It's mid-afternoon, so Gale and Madge are presumably awake, chatting away or finding food, but currently, the camera is set on the boy from 11, who is stalking the pair from 2 from a distance. I bet the Gamemakers think he's going to strike soon.

I turn the volume of the TV down lower, uninterested in watching these stupid Games unless Madge and Gale come on the screen. It's a sadistic way to be thinking, but if something were to happen to them I wouldn't want to walk around not knowing about it. The remote falls off the couch to the floor, and I slump back into discomfort.

"I think they're going to make it," Peeta says with hope spewing from his mouth.

"I know," I answer wistfully, not wanting to get too excited incase I end up losing them.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks curiously, as I haven't been talking much or expressing any emotion other than pensive thought. I just shrug back at him and stare at the wall. He sighs audibly and moves a little bit closer. "Don't zone out on me again, Katniss," he warns, concerned.

"I'm not," I reply sharply.

"Would you just talk to me for once? I know you're not really a conversationalist, but I barely ever get to hear your voice. Say something." I look at his expression, which is filled with worry and anxiety.

"What do you want me to say?"

He shifts in his seat. "Anything. Tell me three things you're thinking about right now."

My face contorts into a skeptical glare. "That's stupid."

"No, I'm serious. Just do it," he coaxes.

"Alright, fine," I agree, letting out a puff of breath and rolling my eyes. "1. I want Gale and Madge to come home. 2. I like not having to watch the Games by myself." I hesitate at the third one. "3. You smell like a bakery."

His eyes sparkle before his head falls back and laughter tumbles out of his mouth. "I'm trying to decide if that's a compliment or not," he adds with another chuckle.

"It is," I say simply with a small smile. "Now you have to do it."

"Okay. 1. I want Gale and Madge to come home. 2. I like not having to watch the Games by myself. 3. You are very beautiful." He states the third as plainly as if he were saying the sky is blue; as if he already accepts it as fact and doesn't question it.

I blush at the notion. "Thank you."

He doesn't need to say anything back. Instead he just slides an arm around my waist and pulls me closer. I accept the gesture, and sit in pleasant silence with him.

XXXXXX

"Three things," he says as he walks in the front door.

"What? Again?"

"Just do it."

"Fine. 1. The feast is starting soon and Madge is going. 2. I didn't get much game this morning. 3. Prim has barely come home from the Hawthorne's all week. Now you go."

"1. I'm worried about the District 2 girl getting to Madge at the feast. 2. Bakery sales aren't doing so well lately. 3. My name is stupid." I laugh at his light-hearted comment and plop down next to him on the couch.

I'm on the edge of my seat. I didn't realize the feast would be starting so soon. Madge could be dead in minutes. The camera flashes over Clove, who is unaccompanied. They showed her talking to Cato – they don't think both of them should go, and her knives are quicker and accurate from a distance, so she's going in for the bag. I turned it off yesterday when they started talking about how she would kill Madge.

All of a sudden, a shock of bright orange hair flashes across the screen. It's the 5 girl. Clove isn't there quick enough, but if she had gotten there 10 seconds sooner, I'm sure Foxface would be wearing a knife by now. She grabs her pack and runs for it, disappearing into the woods. I bet she's running like hell to get away from any traps now.

Without warning, Madge appears in the area, sprinting to the bag marked 12. I think she's going to get away unscathed and unchallenged, but the angle of the camera the Gamemakers chose to broadcast doesn't show everything. It doesn't show Clove sprinting from the other side of the Cornucopia. It doesn't show Clove pull a knife out of her jacket. But it does show Clove appearing 50 feet away from Madge, running at her when she's not looking. And it does show the knife that Clove chucks at her when she's in close range. Madge dodges it by diving to the side, and the dagger whizzes past her, lodging in the ground yards away. Clove closes in on her, but Madge is smart. She rolls over quickly, and when Clove lands on the ground beside her, she launches herself on top of the dark-haired girl. Madge is heavier, and is able to pin Clove down, but for some reason she isn't pulling her knife out of her pocket.

_Come on, Madge. You can do this_, I think to myself, as if urging her on mentally will do anything. Of course she won't, though. She's not a killer. Clove eventually gets the upper hand, kicking hard enough to force Madge on the ground underneath her. She doesn't hesitate like Madge did; she pulls a blade right out of her pocket and holds it up to Madge's cheek, pressing just hard enough to draw blood. The blonde girl beneath her squirms and wriggles but can't get free, and Clove has her legs and arms flat on the ground already.

"We're going to do this nice and slow," she says with an evil twinge to her voice, and I feel a little sick to my stomach. "What's your stupid boyfriend's name? Gale?" she chuckles to herself. "Does he make you scream like this?" she shouts into Madge's face as she plunges the blade into Madge's side. But she doesn't scream. She won't give Clove the pleasure. Instead, she squeezes her eyes shut for a second and lets out a shaky breath. The 2 girl looks momentarily upset, but turns it into pure rage and anger.

"Oh, you're not going to scream for him? We'll see about that, won't we?" Clove stabs Madge again, this time in the stomach, but she won't scream. She winces again, but she won't scream.

"Fucking bitch," Clove yells, and she begins slicing Madge all over in frustration. Madge squeals and kicks, but Clove doesn't give up. "Scream, blondie! Call out for him!"

And she won't.

But that doesn't mean that Clove doesn't find Gale. She finds him, alright, when an arrow lodges in her jugular, and she spits out blood before collapsing to the ground. Madge grabs Clove's knife and backs away from her slowly.

"Run, Madge! Run!" Gale screams, and she does. She sprints for Gale, even though I know her body is flaming with pain. When she reaches Gale, they take off for safety, unsure if one of the other three will come for them. I seriously doubt that the 5 girl will come after them, but Thresh and Cato are menacing.

The camera switches from Madge and Gale back to Clove laying outside the Cornucopia, panting. There are no more tribute packs left, so I assume Thresh came and snatched his without being noticed. Cato rushes to Clove's side, whispering her name.

"Clove, Clove, no," he whimpers. "Don't die. Please, no. We're supposed to go home together." Blood pours out of her mouth again; she's spewing the sticky red liquid. She reaches for his hand and he takes hers without hesitation. "I'm so sorry, Clove. I should have gone to the Cornucopia, not you. I'm so sorry," he tells her.

She looks right into his eyes and chokes on her own bodily fluids before managing in a pained, drowning voice, "I love you."

Cato's crying now, hot tears filling his eyes and falling over his cheeks. "I love you too, Clove."

And then a cannon.

Cato lowers his forehead to Clove's stomach, still clutching her hand. "No! No! No!" he screams desperately. But there's nothing he can do, so he says goodbye to her a final time and departs before he has to watch her body taken from the ground by a hovercraft. As he walks away, a promise falls from his lips. "I promise, Clove."

The camera flashes back to Madge and Gale. They've reached the cave, and Madge doubles over in pain, vomiting and dry-heaving for several minutes outside the mouth of the cave. She was stabbed twice in the stomach, and I have a sudden fear that she might not make it, depending on how bad the internal damage is. Gale clutches his leg and hobbles into the cave, immediately taking up residency on the floor where he left their sleeping bags. When Madge is done vomiting, she goes to him in the cave to give him medicine.

"Are you okay?" she asks him.

His eyes grow wide and almost angry-looking. "Am _I _okay?" he enunciates. "Madge, you told me you weren't going to go. You knew one or both of those District 2 kids were going to be there, and you went anyway."

She looks at him sternly. "I wasn't going to let you die, Gale! It was either watch you die here and never forgive myself or risk my life to get the one thing that might help. What did you think I was going to do?"

"You should have stayed here! Clove could have killed you! And she left some pretty bad wounds, so that's still not out of the question! I'd die if I knew I was the reason you went and got yourself killed."

"I'm not going to die, Gale. Besides, even if I don't make it out of here, you still have –" He cuts her off, silencing her with a kiss. His hands slide up to her face and he holds her there in front of him.

"I still have you, don't I?" he asks with a smile.

Well played, Hawthorne. Well played.

I stare blankly at the screen. It's not lost on me what she was going to say. She was going to say that he still has me. And then he deliberately changed her words around to deny any feelings for me, and affirm his love for her. My glance turns down to the ground, but for some reason the pain doesn't come. There's no empty void anymore where Gale used to be.

Peeta pulls his hand out of my firm grasp. Wait, when did that happen? Did I grab his hand when Clove threw the knife? I must have.

"You know, the sad part about this all is that he really does still love you," Peeta murmurs, walking toward the door.

"What?"

"Oh, come off it, Madge! You're still in love with him, aren't you? I can see it. And you think he's not even in love with you anymore, but don't you get it? It's all an act, and that's what they want you to think, that's what they want all of Panem to think. But the sick thing is, is you believe it." He starts to walk away, and it all makes sense. They put this all together. They aren't really in love; they're faking it for sponsors. And Haymitch Abernathy must have gotten that rule change for the crowd appeal. The Capitol citizens must love this stuff – the two star-crossed lovers who were destined to be together, thrown into the same tragic circumstance, but saved by the forgiving grace of the Capitol. Gale doesn't love her, he really loves me.

Peeta's about to walk out the door, but I don't want him to leave. I don't want him to stop coming here. I don't want to keep screwing up and pushing him away, but apparently that's what I keep doing. "Peeta!" I call before he leaves. He hesitates a moment and looks over his shoulder, and the emotion he's trying to conceal is leaking onto his face. "Three things."

"Are you kidding, Katniss? Is this some kind of a joke to you?"

"Just do it, okay?"

He sighs. "1. Gale loves you. 2. You love Gale. 3. I love you."

For some reason, the third doesn't take me by surprise. I think I knew it this whole time, but I was afraid to admit it to myself. But now it's my turn. Peeta turns again to leave, expecting that I won't return his sentiment, but I stop him. "You didn't let me do mine!" I say. He stops, but does not turn towards me. When I am sure I have his attention, and he's not going to leave, I start. "1. Gale loves me. 2. I do not love Gale. And 3 is..." I stop, the words jumping around in my throat before I decide whether I can say them. They're sliding back down my throat again, but I must say this to him to make him stay; I must tell him how I feel if I don't want to lose him. After a small pause, I continue. "3 is… I love you too."


End file.
